Deny Me
by Duilin
Summary: I killed you. I killed you. Deny me. I pray you, deny me. Happy birthday, Mornen! Sorry for being really, really late!


"Beleg... You are stained with blood."

From where Túrin sat, slumped against a tree, he watched Gwindor lift his head up in shock at the first words he had spoken since they had first met. The Elf looked down at himself and saw not a single trace of blood. He had, before meeting Túrin, attempted to cleanse himself of any visible wounds, but his face had been visibly weary, However, he found himself free of any red and glanced over to Túrin again, confused. But understanding flickered across his face as he saw Túrin's glazed eyes. And then he registered, in his mind, that he had been addressed as Beleg; that led him to believe that Túrin had not even been speaking to him.

Gwindor stood and strode over to Túrin. "Young one, rouse yourself from grief. I speak as Gwindor of Nargothrond."

Túrin simply stared at him blankly and did not respond.

"Túrin." He stood there, patiently, waiting for Túrin to motion that he had heard, but the Man didn't. "Túrin, come drink from the Pools of Ivrin." When there was still no response, Gwindor gave him a stern look. "I cannot weep in your place, son of Húrin."

It was a miracle that Gwindor could even get him to move anywhere with his disinterested, empty gaze. And though he did not wish to bring unnecessary cruelty upon the Man and have Túrin confront what he had done, it was for the better if Túrin would face the facts. Taking hold of Túrin's wrist, Gwindor pulled him up to his feet and guided him towards the glassy lake nearest them and forced Túrin his knees, pressing him down into the grass.

"Drink, Túrin," urged Gwindor gently. Túrin watched his reflection intently, and with a sigh, Gwindor cupped his hands into the water and lifted them, collecting a small puddle of clear, fresh water. He sipped from it, silently urging Túrin to do the same, when realization came to him. "Are you trying to end your existence? If you do not intake food or water, you will die. Is that what you want? Is death really a better alternative than honoring Beleg's memory?"

Unsurprisingly, Túrin showed no indication that he had heard what Gwindor said. His body remained still, his face remained the same, impassive and achromatic. Gwindor stood and contemplated leaving Túrin in the meadow to allow Túrin privacy. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable with Gwindor witnessing his grief and therefore refused to show it in front of him. Scrutinizing Túrin's lack of emotion, he decided to leave Túrin for the meanwhile and come back when the Man came to his senses. Drinking from the pool would certainly help him come to terms with what he had done, but he was not sure how hard the Man would take it.

With a soft voice, Gwindor said, "Túrin, I will go gather bracken so we might sleep on it. It is almost night."

When he left, there seemed to be a small change in Túrin's expression. Cautiously, as if moving too quickly would shatter him, he bent down to the lake and gathered water into his dirtied hands. The dried blood on his hands seemed to drift from his skin, and the dirt washed away easily. But as soon as the dirt floated away, the blood stuck to his hands one more, the pool of water in his hands rejoining the lake with a splash as he pulled his hands away swiftly.

In a futile attempt to scrape it away, he scratched at his skin until it was rubbed raw. Even then, the blood still remained and was now dripping down his fingers, sliding down past his wrists, and pattering to the grass from his elbow. Angrily, he pooled water in his hands once more and drank, tasting blood and water mingling together as he bled. He did not care as water splashed onto his face and dripped down his cheeks.

_Red flowed steadliy onto his hands. Everything was so horribly bright, but it was supposed to be night. It was supposed to be dark, and the moon was not supposed to shine. The moon had no right to shine so beautifully or happily. Not as a look of anguish passed over Beleg's face. Staring at him, T__ú_rin could not understand why he seemed so pained. T_ú_rin waited for him to smile, to greet him with that guarded expression of his so T_ú_rin might read into it and determine he was just as joyous to see T_ú_rin as T_ú_rin was to see him.

_'Beleg. You came for me.'_

Túrin's eyes widened, and his throat started to burn horribly, choking him. He curled his fingers around his neck and wished he could simply tear it out. Then, he looked at the lake, almost desperately, and stood, shaking, on his feet.

_Gwindor was weak and weary, though he forced himself to stand and survey the scene before him. Túrin knelt by the tree, shocked, his body slumped against the base, with sharp, cutting bark digging into his forearm and fingers. He stared at Beleg blankly. Gwindor gently pulled the sword from Beleg's throat, and blood started to flow towards the hilt when he held it upright. He used it to dig into the dirt, creating a hollow big enough for the fallen archer. He worked with tired, aching muscles, feeling as if he would collapse. It seemed like forever until he hit the roots of a tree. Then, he carefully lifted Beleg's body from the floor and placed him in the hollowed ground tenderly, closing those brilliant green eyes. They were filled with shock._

_He turned to T__úrin. "T__ú_rin, I cannot work alone. My body is too sore to continue."

_T__ú_rin slowly stood, almost in a trance. Then, his eyes trailed from the thick smeared line of blood to Beleg's body, and his eyes widened, horrified and terrified. He walked forward and held his hand forward, shaking as he stared at his friend.

_"Beleg," he said softly, his voice a croak. "Beleg."_

_He threw himself upon the body, and Gwindor nearly jumped back in shock. Tears did not fill T__ú_rin's eyes, but as he regarded Beleg quietly, he felt his mind shut down as he closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Beleg's.

_"Beleg," he mumbled again._ _"_Beleg_."_

_'Open your eyes, Beleg. Why will you not open your eyes? Have you shunned the sight of me?' Túrin thought quietly. 'Who killed you? Tell me who killed you. Tell me!'_

The water held the answers to him, to his horrible question, to his existence.

_'Beleg, I pray you, tell me...'_

He leapt into the lake and half-expected the pure water to reject him.

_I killed you. I killed you. Deny me. I pray you, deny me._

Gwindor heard the screams clearly, sitting behind a tree. He quickly rose to his feet and stood, sprinting to the pool. As he arrived, he beheld with his eyes the sight of Túrin kneeling in the shallow pool of clear water, his hands covering his face as his fingers dug at his skin, yelling disbelievingly in what seemed to be an unintelligible language. It certainly was not Quenya, and it was nothing relatively close to Sindarin, but the way he screamed - it was horrible, listening to him.

And then, amazingly, he started to laugh. He started to laugh and started to cry, and Gwindor looked at him, slightly startled.

"I killed him!"Tears streaked down Túrin's face. "I killed him," he repeated again, turning to Gwindor.

He dragged himself from the water, clothes plastered to his body, hair sticking to his cheeks.

"Bring me to Nargothrond, Gwindor."

_"Beleg, is war really glorious, as the Men say?"_

_Beleg sighed. "War is never glorious, Túrin. Who told you so?"_

_"The Men who came into Doriath. They said that war was glorious and killing would prove as victory."_

_Beleg's expression was grave as he regarded Túrin. "Never, Túrin, let them deceive you into thinking killing is glorious." Upon seeing Túrin protest, most likely to say that he did not state that killing was glorious, Beleg continued, "It has basically the same connotation, that killing is glorious. Many men associate war with killing, and it's true. But killing is never glorious. One has taken life upon killing unrightfully. It is a shameful thing to do, yes, but it is necessary, as we must kill those who wish to kill us to survive. Maybe this is related to a natural instinct to rationalize our guilt, but some misinterpret it as righteous anger at being threatened and killing by being forced to."_

_"Then, do I just try not to kill anyone?"_

_Immediately, Beleg saw the flaw in this logic. If Túrin tried to remain without blood-stained hands, he would possibly be a blood-stained dead body. "No, Túrin, kill only when you have to."_

_"I will not let anyone kill you, Beleg."_


End file.
